


Royal Straight Flush - Let's Play

by iram0123



Category: Black Clover - Tabata Yuki (Anime & Manga)
Genre: F/M, Multi
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-10-19
Updated: 2020-11-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 01:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 20,409
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27106810
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/iram0123/pseuds/iram0123
Summary: "Let's make a bet. If I'm right, then you have to cut off those ridiculous bangs of yours!"The world of magic doesn't suit her. Magic doesn't suit her. Rora can't say she likes a lot of things in this world, to be honest. She has a job as a journalist, but the work allows her to dig the dirt of the society. She has a loving adoptive family, but they are far away from her reach by choice. She has two little brothers coming to take a Magic Knights exam, but that is just asking for trouble. Although, it could be in her nature to get into difficulties. She may as well be cursed.
Relationships: Nozel Silva/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 10





	1. Instinct

_When it is spring, I hate the melting snow. When it is summer, I hate the heat. When it is autumn, I hate rain. But when it is winter, I detest the cold._

_That is why, when I float in the dark and feel absolutely nothing, I am at peace. However, that doesn’t always continue. Whether I am sleeping or unconscious you always have to wake up. Even if you prefer staying oblivious for the rest of your life._

_The next time I open my eyes, there is still nothing but darkness in front of me. But then the vision focuses, and small white dots appear here and there – snow. Sensation returns to every part of my body and slowly but surely, I begin to feel the chill against my skin. What follows next is realizing how thousands of needles are pricking my back, but the snow I lay on is soft and smooth._

_Through the ringing in my ears, I start hearing the sounds of two voices sniffling and crying. Calling my name. Besides cold, my fingers twitch around two little ones holding them in their warm grasps._

_Two tops of different haired heads are laying on my stomach. The boys’ bodies are shaking either from cold or fear._

_I convulse when trying to get up. A metallic taste fills my mouth and I feel even colder._

_The jerking motion makes the two boys look up. Their faces are just as before – bruised, bloodied, and wet from tears, snot, and blood. Their lower lips wobble at seeing the grimace on my face._

_“Rora!” Asta is the first one to cry out and throw his entire body weight on top of me._

_The air is knocked out of my lungs. “A-asta… can’t b-breathe – “_

_"Waaah! Rora!" Yuno is the next one to throw himself on me and more air goes out of my body._

_My arms twitch at my sides, clawing the snow. "Y-you t-two…" I cough but then can raise my hands to place them on top of their heads. "You… are o-okay.”_

_They do not let go for a while and I do not try pushing them away. It is not because I can't, though. I want to stay where we are, in the middle of this village on cold December night, together and safe. It doesn’t matter when the cold against my back becomes burning or the tip of my nose becomes numb. The two little ones holding onto me are warm._

_When we do separate and I sit up, I touch their face gently. The bruises on their faces look bad and I frown when wiping the blood off with the back of my sleeves. In the end, there is blood on me too. If either of them is still in pain, they don’t vocalize it._

_Somehow, all three of us manage to ignore the unconscious body just a few feet away. The drunk man has no value or meaning, but the blue necklace lying next to him shifts my attention. I stand up, walking slowly towards the sparkling jewel, and pick it up. The stone feels as cold as ice but warms up within my palm._

_I place it around Yuno’s neck where it belongs._

_“Listen, boys."_

_They both do, eyes solely on me. Their bodies tremble and I bring them in for a warming hug._

_“We must never tell anyone what happened here. Do you understand me?”_

_They look at me and each other, obviously confused._

_“Why?” Asta asks._

_I do not let the frustration show, reminding myself that they are still too young to comprehend certain things._

_“Because… it is our secret,” I say, lacing the truth with innocence. “Can you two keep a secret for me?”_

_“Secret,” Yuno echoes, amber eyes bright. “No telling to anyone? Not even Father or Sister Lily?”_

_I nod and hug them tighter. I have no strength to meet their eyes and bitterness fills my mouth. “Yes, no telling even to them.”_

_“But why?” Asta asks again, pouting from the vague response. “We can’t lie to them.”_

_“It is not lying if you don’t tell,” I say and then ruffle their heads gently. “You two are my brave little knights who will guard my secret, right?”_

_The sweetened words work, and tiny smiles spread on their round faces. I smile back, but not for the same reasons. At this moment, I can't stop envying them for not knowing, but those ugly emotions are washed away when the grey-haired boy throws himself into my arms again._

_“Ya know, I’m not gonna be a knight,” he declares and grins up at me. “I’m gonna be the Wizard King! I will protect you, your secret, and everyone else too! That way, we can get nicer things, and nobody will mess with us again! And then… I will prove…”_

_“Prove?” Yuno’s voice is muffled by my shirt as he has nearly buried himself in it, but his expression is attentive._

_Asta’s grin becomes even wider and he takes a step back. His tiny fist covered in scratches rises up to the air. “That even if you are poor… or an orphan… you can still become the Wizard King!”_

_“We can?” The black-haired boy asks innocently and turns his face up to me. “Can we, Rora?”_

_I look at him and then at Asta. He is definitely barely standing while looking like someone’s punching bag. But even with a bloodied lip, his smile is wide and full of confidence. So much so that he doesn’t even hesitate to answer for me._

_“Anyone can if they work hard enough!” He nods._

_“Anyone?” Yuno’s face is full of wonder, his eyes fixed on his friend._

_Asta points at himself. “Me, or even you and Rora.”_

_This is where I can't help it and a bewildered laugh bursts out of my mouth. They look startled, eyes wide, and looking up at me. Green orbs look a bit hurt and a spike of guilt pokes at my chest._

_“Sorry, sorry. I’m not laughing at you, Asta,” I say, barely holding another chortle in. “Unfortunately, I don’t think it is possible for me, but… I do believe that the two of you can.”_

_The boy still in my arms perks up. Then, he furiously starts wiping the tears still in his eyes and takes a step back. “Then… I will become the Wizard King, too!”_

_The fierce look of determination is a new one. He has never worn it before. It takes both me and Asta back and we can’t stop listening as he continues the growing promise._

_“I’ll protect you two and everyone else. I’ll get stronger! I’m gonna make everyone even happier! So, we can have nicer things!”_

_It may be dark and cold, but it is also a day of a vow between the two aspiring children. Their words are strong. Even as someone who only stands by, I feel the heart in my chest beating loudly. I may hate the cold but seeing the two of them bump fists in the declaration of a challenge brings warmth back. I smile, ignoring the shadows creeping against my back._

_Even with the many odds in the future, I somehow believe that these two will –_

* * *

“Rora Hage!”

I jerk up, not minding the drool that has piled up on the desk from my sleep. What I do mind is the unwanted presence that has invaded into my private – though small – office. Boots stomp forward and it takes a while for me to process the environment before they are just inches away.

_What the…_

”Unacceptable! Absolutely unacceptable! Dah! How dare you publish such audacities!”

A round middle-aged man holds out today’s newspaper in front of my face like a carcass he discovered in his living room. This actually has happened. Nothing new, though. Last week someone complained about a dead squirrel in their bedroom and it made it to the front page. Dry and boring, but it makes me wonder if that is all this place has to offer.

The tension drops from my shoulders and tiredness melt away the startled look I have. _Ugh. He is one of_ those.

My eyes slide down to the small commercials that people have paid to get on the news. Someone is offering massages. Which is what I and this man here would need right now. I have barely slept, and it is still early in the morning.

“I would need for you to be more specific, good sir,” I finally say monotonously. “We publish a lot of things.”

His face was red the second he barged in, but now it positively turns into the color of a grape. “Don't play the fool with me! I have been asking around and everyone says you wrote an article about my factory! Do you have any idea what… “

_My ears._

I lean back on my chair which is not comfortable at any level. It is made out of wood and it is just as nice to sit on for hours. Idly, I start picking dirt off underneath the fingernails and take in a deep breath.

“I would need for you to be even _more_ specific, good sir. We publish a lot of articles concerning factories and industries,” I say, not really sure if I cut him off in the middle of a rant or not.

“This one!” He slams the paper down on my flimsy desk and I stiffen. This office’s furniture has been purchased with my meager wages and it is already in danger of being vandalized.

Managing to stay calm despite the wobbling the desk does, I look down at the text the man’s stubby finger points. The text on it is undoubtedly mine, given that my name is printed as the writer. Still, it didn’t stop this man from finding me and my office, so I am beginning to think about changing it… Not that that has stopped the others before him from ending up in this same scenario with me.

Tired and not really caring anymore, I start to read the article slowly. “ _The fifty-year-old celebration for Abbyridge’s company was nothing but a last-second attempt at restoring honor. The company was found smuggling illegal substances to the borders within the cover of its merchandise last year. Upon discovery, the company faced charges but wasn't otherwise convicted. However, losing their major line for resources proved to be a fatal blow to their fortune. The owner, Gastor Abbyridge, is desperately trying to gain sponsors with the elaborate party using the scraps of his money. How far do they plan on dragging their honor? Additionally – “_

 _“_ You see!? I demand you change this at once!" The man cuts me off and rips the paper to himself. The thin substance wrinkles in his furious grip.

My mind works slowly. He must expect me to apologize or meekly try to justify the work. Judging by the rings around his fingers and the clothes worth my four-month salary it is rather obvious what he is confident will happen.

“I can’t _change_ it. The newspaper was published this morning across the capital and regions below it.”

He slams his hands on the desk and I flinch. He probably sees it as a sign of fear and a satisfied glint appears in his eyes. “I know that! You fool! I want you to change what you have written here and publish it in _tomorrow’s_ newspaper.”

“Rejected,” I bluntly state and rise up. We are both around the same height and I get some satisfaction from the fact that he looks startled.

“Y-you,” he grits his teeth, seeming at loss for words. His right arm twitches, just above his grimoire.

“I am not the one who makes the final decisions here. You can go ahead and speak with our editors about your concerns. Have a good day," I say and grab my bag, rounding the desk and him and slipping out through the door.

Despite being one of the few in the building, people are starting to pour in. I dodge and apologize for bumping into moving obstacles, heading towards the lower floors. Who cares if that overgrown Potato begins trashing my office? Most of the stuff I have here is a bunch of junk anyway. I clutch my bag, knowing that all I need is the notepad within it. I rather choose walking into a messy space later than spend more seconds within it with that screaming jerk.

 _This is not the first time,_ I repeat to myself. Before him, many others have come and not only to me. Every day someone yells in this place, demanding fixing in what has been said… But why do I feel that I am being berated more than anyone else lately?

As I pass by another private office owner by another writer, a head peeks out and grins. "Another one, Miss Hage?"

The floor creaks when I come to an abrupt stop. I glare and cross my arms. “You sold me out, didn’t you?”

Jubo laughs, waving at me dismissingly. He also works as a journalist but judging by the neatly combed hair and face fresh from sleep he arrived here less than an hour ago. “No way, I’m not cruel enough to interrupt your nap.”

I narrow my eyes. “I could have been working you know.”

“Nah. Not with your snoring coming through the walls,” he laughs again and dodges when I throw a pen at him. “Were you working on a new case?”

I shake my head. “I find it more comfortable to sleep in the office.”

The blonde lets out a low whistle. “I’m not really sure whether to take that as dedication or a problem. Are you at least going home now?”

“No, I will go and have a word with Coffee Bean,” I point the direction where I came from. “With another pretentious noble here, I couldn’t get any work done even if I wanted to.”

He gives me a strange look. “Will you quit calling our boss that way?”

“We’ll see. Later then, Moldy Banana,” I say back without looking behind me, too busy rubbing the sleep from my eyes. My neck is stiff from the uncomfortable position I slept in and it hurts from slight movement.

“And quit calling me that as well!” The blonde yells after me in annoyance, like it is not something I have called him for the past five years.

The building may be large, but the hallways are pretty narrow and twist and turn many times. Guests and those unfamiliar with the place tend to get lost often. All of us who have worked here sometimes get lost, too. For some reason, the hallways either get longer or shorter than we remember, and the constant turning does tricky things to the mind.

Speaking of minds, I have no idea how mine came up with that dream I saw. The more I think about it, the more homesick I become.

_What a memory._

I crave for the potatoes from my home village all of sudden.

The door to the Chief’s office is open and the smell of coffee hits my nose, interrupting the daydreams as suddenly as they come. His room is always open, but that just means there is a danger of interrupting conversation going within. And so, I end up gradually creeping forward and peeking around the corner at what is going inside.

The humongous desk in the middle is partially blocked by a colorful cape on broad shoulders and my mood sours back down. If someone wearing such an extravagant outfit is here, no doubt another argument will soon arise.

They are talking. It is evident from the hand gestures and pauses between them. From behind the guest, Chief’s voice carries out, his blackened hands appearing now and then. The sight of those makes me swallow thickly and meekly back away from the door. 

_Three… two… one…_

“Outrageous!” The man wearing the ridiculous cape positively explodes.

Me along with few other workers standing by and peeking out of the rooms jump at the loud volume.

“You shall regret this! Mark my words!” The guest growls and stomps towards the door, cape fluttering in the air.

“Yes, yes, I shall indeed. Don’t hit your head on the way out,” Chief comments in a bored manner and pours himself a cup of coffee.

“Why would I – gah!” Just as he turns, the top of his ridiculously tall hair – which is shaped like a cone – gets caught on the top of the door and he nearly topples down.

I snort, but quickly cover it up when his wide angry eyes turn to me. Not wanting to deal with another difficult man, I lower my head and quickly slip into the room, closing the doors that are usually open for anyone to enter.

Chief takes a loud and slow sip from the hot drink. The mug is ridiculously large and has the words 'Coffee’ written on it with bold black letters. The grandfather clock ticks next to me.

“What’s up with these nobles suddenly hogging our offices?” I finally ask and sit down on one of the couches. They are all worn out, but comfortable.

Much like my office, this one has no order. Newspapers, old and new, are stacked up on high shelves or scattered on the floor in piles. Pieces of paper get stuck on the feet that walk around the place, like glue traps, and I swat them off irritably. The couches are filled with towers of paper and only a few spots are available to sit on.

To put it simply, even if you opened the large windows at the front of the room, the scent of ink and paper is positively soaking in the floorboards.

“Haven’t you read the news?” Chief shots back and continues drinking loudly. “That one wanted us to post an article about his son who is about to take the Magic Knights exam.”

My back straightens. “And you said no.”

“Naturally. Who would want to read such things? I suggested that he’d post a small commercial to promote his son. Maybe a few higher up people would then take pity on him.”

The blunt honesty makes me smile in amusement. “Small commercials are for small industries and grannies looking for someone to take care of their pets. Aren’t you worried he might do something to take you down for this?”

Chief scoffs. “If I were such an easy target, they would have had my head a long time ago. Speaking of easy targets, I would start watching what you write.”

“I have written what I have all this time and you haven’t kicked me out yet,” I reason, but the seriousness of his voice takes the joking edge off. “Someone threw me to the wolves again. We should hide my office.”

“You will deal with criticism like any other journalist,” Chief says nonchalantly, and another loud sip follows.

“Sure, criticism,” I mutter, knowing that this topic is far from over until I get what I want.

“Was there something else?” Chief asks and begins scribbling down his paperwork, mug still in hand. Sometimes I wonder if he has ever spilled some on his desk.

Heart already jumping up to my throat, I take out a piece of paper from my bag and place it on his desk. For a second, he stops writing and looks at it, eyes hidden behind the glasses from the angle the light shines on them. There is a silence, but a good kind. Chief wouldn’t stay silent like this if he wasn’t considering what he reads.

The Clover Kingdom’s newspaper was brought to this very point by this man’s power. No matter how worn down he looks in his simple white shirt with a bunch of coffee stains and bags under his eyes, it is partly thanks to him that the information reaches all corners of the kingdom. And that is precisely why my stomach is in knots as I wait for his judgment.

“You sure _this_ is the one you want to do?” He finally breaks the silence and taps the report I handed to him. “I won’t pay for your medical bills again if this goes awry.”

I flinch, his words punching me to the ribs. “Y-you have only paid for those once.”

“Three times to be exact,” he says and leans back on his soft armchair. “Well, I can’t really complain since you’re one of the few who actually goes _voluntarily._ ”

“Then hurry up and give me the job,” I order bluntly, and he gives me an unimpressed look.

“You know I am your boss, right?”

“I’m aware.”

Chief sighs heavily. “You really don’t change… Fine, you can go. Your next payment depends on how quickly you can get the story for me, though.”

The sun is now above the buildings behind the glass and it shines warmly on my face. The window is open and from the outside the scent of warm bread from the bakery across the streets waffles in. My stomach growls quietly in hunger and I take the paper hurriedly back.

“You got it.”

* * *

Instead of heading straight home, my feet lead me in opposite direction.

The sleep has not left me even when I step out to the street and feel the morning chill. The sun is up, and the air is moist from the morning mist. All these things make it seem like the dream has not ended but continues. The overbearing noble from before as a figment of the imagination is a nice thought. The pain in my joints says otherwise, though.

The streets are not filled with crowds, which is an opportunity for me to enjoy the peace and quiet. It is contradicting to how my life is on weekly basis, or what my life is outside this capital. The dream I saw only makes me want to return to the latter.

Where I end up is a bar and as soon as I open the door a familiar empty space greets me. Because it is still early, most of the customers have either left or will come back later. However, one person is standing behind the bar who greets me by raising his head from the sparkling glass he is cleaning.

“Yo! It’s been a while, Alcoholism!”

The elder man nods in greeting. “Miss Hage, indeed, it has.”

I grin and hop on a chair in front of him, placing my bag on the other one. “You aren’t closing yet, right? Can I have the usual please?”

He places the glass down and gives me a small smile. “Of course. Would you like ice or none?”

“Ice please,” I say and watch him start the work.

This is one of the few places I escape to after or before work. It is quiet and nice, even though not many come here for a drink apparently. I fail to see the reason for that, but because the place is still standing, I am starting to think the bartender is pulling on my leg.

“Did something happen at your office today?” Alcoholism asks politely and mixes the ingredients.

I frown, souring up at the memory. “You can tell?”

“You always come by after such events,” he simply says without looking up. “Also, I read your article this morning and had a hunch that something like this might happen.”

The observation throws me off a bit, but then I sigh heavily. He has a point when I think about it. Coming here has only been a natural reaction on my part, though. I haven't even thought of it that much. But a jolt of joy goes through me from knowing that he read my part in the newspaper.

“Yes, another Pompous Potato came by. I would think the nobles would have more free time to sleep and read the news later. I could slip away by then.”

“May I ask why you insist on calling every noble gentleman by such titles?” The elder man asks pours my drink into a thin framed glass.

“I like potatoes, don’t get me wrong, but only when they are properly cooked and prepared. Potatoes that I see are all covered in dirt from their deeds,” I say start braiding my wild curly hair into a braid. “Plus, this one actually looked like a potato. You should have seen Pompous Peacock that I met last week. All the jewels he wore could have paid a year's worth of rent!”

“I think I can imagine their appearance with those names,” Alcoholism smiles again and pushes the drink towards me. “You’ve worked hard. The drink is on the house.”

I jump, eyes wide. The drink is what I have always ordered here, sparkling in an orange glow. I look between it and the man on the other side of the table a few times, disbelief clear on my face. This is not what I expected.

“Really?” I ask carefully, but my hand is already wrapped around the glass. It is cool to the touch.

The greying elder nods and places a hand on his chest close to the heart. “Yes, please, enjoy it.”

“You didn’t lace it with something, did you?” The question is playful, and I take a sip, melting at the delicious taste. The strain fades from my stiff neck immediately and I sigh from the peace I am suddenly in.

He merely smiles secretively, and I laugh. We both joke around like this whenever I come by. It is hard to believe that I first entered this place with expectations of prejudice and disgust towards my messy appearance. A lot of places around the capital do so, but this one bar is one of the few which have surprised me with pleasant treatment. I do not want to or have the motivation to always melt into the crowd as one of the capital citizens when I grew up in the Forsaken Realm.

While women of my age mostly wear ruffled dresses and pull their hair up with pins and pearls, I waltz across the streets in pants and shirts. Brown curls are rarely placed up or in order. When I braid them, I also let them free within a few hours. What kind of journalist could find news in a dress anyway?

_Sister Lily would have an attack if she saw –_

The chair nearly falls when I stand up without a warning. “Oh, but something good is going to happen! My lil’ bros are going to take the Magic Knights exam!”

“That is wonderful to hear,” Alcoholism chuckles genuinely and gains renewed interest. “How old are your brothers?”

“Both of them are fifteen,” I say proudly and smile just as much. “And they got their grimoires this year a few months ago. They couldn’t stop bragging about those in their letters.”

“How do you think they’re going to manage in the exam?” He doesn’t ask that unkindly or with doubt, despite knowing where I come from. This is the same attitude he has had with me since the beginning – lack of judgment.

My smile drops slightly at the question. I think of those two little boys whom I have not seen in years and sink back down to sit. It may have been a while, but judging by the letters we exchange, both Yuno and Asta are as they were the last time we saw each other. I can tell how they write and the words they use. 

Despite this having absolutely nothing to do with me, butterflies fill my stomach from the thought of them arriving in the capital. Both of them are from the Forsaken Realm – no doubt certain things around here will shock them. The difference in people, the way of life, and attitudes. I know this from firsthand experience. And I am not too sure if I want those two to go down the same path. 

“I… They both have their strengths and weaknesses, but the results all depend on the exam and the ones judging it… Being a peasant will only make things harder for them,” I confess and swirl my drink in the glass.

 _Not to mention…_ The orange glow in the drink is the same as the sunset across Hage village’s fields. The same sunset we would look from the church. _Asta doesn’t have any magic._ Which doesn’t add up with the fact he got a grimoire.

I am almost tempted to ask Alcoholism what he knows about the connection between mana and grimoire choosing a person but bite my tongue. I am not going to speak about _that_ here.

“You have managed well,” he says reassuringly and pours another drink. “I am sure with a sister like you those two will make it.”

A snort comes out of me, despite trying to hold it in. “I’ve ‘managed’ as you said. People still look down on me here because I am a peasant and…”

The last bit is left unsaid. Alcoholism doesn't know – or he has figured it out ages ago – because he hasn’t been told about what I _lack._

There shouldn’t be any shame in it. I have always judged people based on other attributes, but never on magic. However, the crawling sense of shame from the distasteful glances haunts me every day. Even at work. Chief used to be like that, and it is a memory I don’t really want to think about often. Jubo was one of the few who was also skeptical when I joined the crew. For a long time, there wasn’t a day when I didn’t struggle to gain recognition or permission to publish my own articles. Even when I am at a point, when I do so regularly, sometimes it doesn’t feel like I am looked at the same way as others.

A young woman from the Forsaken Realm without any potential to use magic came to the Royal Capital one day and demanded to be let into work. That enough should have made an amusing article for people to read. Just remembering the reactions I got makes blood gather up in my head.

**_“They mock you.”_ **

“I do not look down on you, Miss Hage.”

I raise my head. Those eyes that look at me are not filled with dullness or hate, just kindness. He looks at me like any other human.

“I admire your tendency to get into squabbles with nobles.”

I frown, the tender atmosphere is gone. “You mean I entertain you?”

“At times,” he says, and a twinkle appears in his eyes at the face I make. “Not many would risk their necks at your line of work like you do.”

“It isn’t risking when I have nothing to lose,” I take a sip from the drink, wishing for it to take the heavy cloud in my head away. “For me, someone at the bottom of the food chain, I’d rather do work that makes me feel alive, not because I have to survive.”

* * *

When I do come home, the sun is up, and the streets are full. Opposite to this, my stomach is empty, and I end up munching bread on the way. It was on sale, so the outer part is hard to the point I have to bite a few times to get a piece.

At home – or rather one small closet-sized room at the attic – letters are waiting at the bottom of the door.

I start reading them.

The first one I recognize as Asta’s. The handwriting is a dead giveaway, but so is the context.

_'Hi, Rora!_

_Guess what? Today I trained with the weird black sword again! It is really heavy, ya know! The kids tried to lift it, but it wouldn’t even budge! Guess training all this time has paid off! I will definitely pass the Magic Knights exam. I can’t wait for it! I want to hurry up to the capital and see you again!’_

I chuckle, feeling giddy knowing that he feels the same as I do. Not on the exam part – I still hold conflicted emotions about that – but that soon we could see each other. He has told me multiple times that he trains regularly, but it will be exciting to see the results myself. He was always such an energetic child, so training daily doesn’t sound like an impossible task.

Reading through Asta’s letter happens like a breeze. It is filled with energy and bundles of things he has done since the last letter. But, of course, he mostly speaks about the Magic Knights and how he is soon going to be the Wizard King.

His letter makes me think of the dream I had.

I go through the letters Sister Lily and the kids have sent next. They mostly write on the same paper because the younger siblings can’t all write properly yet. They are also the ones that fill in things that either Yuno or Asta have not told me.

These letters also make me a bit sad, because I can’t watch Recca, Nash, Aruru or Hollo grow as I have with the other two brothers of mine. Lily was also the only girl around my age back at the village I talked with. We basically were the two ‘mothers’, so to speak. Sometimes I wonder if she feels a bit lonely like I do without someone to understand.

She asks me to look after the boys when they arrive for their exams.

The third letter I open belongs to Yuno.

_‘Hello, Rora,_

_how are you?’_

I chuckle again. He has always been so formal in his letters that I can hear his soft-spoken voice through them.

_‘We are doing well. The kids are as energetic and Asta even more so. I have been practicing my magic and I can say it feels different now that I have a grimoire. I want to show it to you soon. There is no need to worry – I will pass the Magic Knights exam.’_

The two of them are so different, but they almost always manage to say similar things. The thought makes me laugh instead of chuckling. I just know that neither of them would appreciate being compared like that.

Somehow, I end up reading Father’s letter as the last one. And I am glad I do.

_‘Dear Rora,_

_I hope that you’re in good health. As you know, Asta and Yuno will soon arrive at the capital and this worries me, for the lack of better words. I know within my heart that Yuno will be fine – the boy has always possessed exceptional magic. None of us have **any** doubt that he won’t make it to the Magic Knights. Even yesterday our neighbors told me they share our thoughts on the matter. I repeat we are **certain** he will be victorious.’_

I have only read one paragraph of his text and my eyebrow is already raised. The black-haired boy is talented, that is for sure, but Father is laying it a bit too thick.

_‘Asta is another case. It shocked us to learn he even earned a grimoire. The Tower Master has no explanation of how someone like him could achieve such a thing. Nonetheless, grimoire or not, I do not think he should be taking the exam. I have tried to pursue him into forgetting it, but so far, he has made up his mind._

_This is where I would like to ask you to convince him to quit. He doesn’t have magic, so it is unlikely – highly so – that he will be even accepted as a Magic Knight. It will only embarrass and crush him. The people from the capital can be cruel and I do not want him to be subjected to such humiliation.’_

I stop reading before getting to his regards to me.

I stare at the scattered letters on my lap, each one showing me the face of the people I know. And it is Father's letter which I have ended up clutching in my grip much like that nobleman with the newspaper this morning. I am pretty sure he felt something close to what I am currently going through.

My mind is blank. Asta’s smile is burned into my head along with those times I saw him doing pushups and running across the forest with sweat on his forehead. All those small individual scars he gained from such reckless behavior are definitely marking his skin to this day.

_All that hard work…_

And people still expect him to give up?

The aching irritation I felt from being woken up this morning returns. With newly found energy, I grab parchments of paper and begin writing replies. But I do not start writing in the same order I opened the letters in.

I love Father, I really do. He took care of me and my siblings for so long. He has a good heart – he has _good_ intentions that come from the right place… But I am an adult and can disagree with him on _certain_ things.

_‘Dear Father,_

_shut up.’_

And this is just how I _start_ the reply letter. I remember to pack stale leftover bread for Father, too.

* * *

Money. It is always money.

_My salary!_

The problem with getting a story outside the capital is that the further you go the more you will have to pay and take care of transportation for yourself. That is why when I let a few coins fall into a carriage owner’s hand I shed silent tears. Every time I use the money to pay my way, it is a sign telling me to hurry up and get the story Chief wants.

Besides a lonesome journalist, a few other people also pay for transport. They are either from the working class returning to their homes for the weekend or elderly who can’t support themselves anymore and plan to live with their relatives. Either way, we all settle down in the carriage in the middle of a busy morning and wait for the wooden contraption to start moving.

_You can do this._

I play with the strap of my bag, which only has a few items in it. Compared to the others sitting completely still and in relaxation, I am constantly on the move. Fidgeting or glancing at the front to see whether the rider has taken the reins yet.

But then, a familiar face enters the carriage and sits down next to me. I would brush them off as a stranger if they were not looking at me intently to the point that I have to take a proper look.

“Oh, Moldy Banana.”

His smile drops instantly. “Like I keep telling you, it’s Jubo!”

“Sure,” I nod, but my eyes are on the fluffy cloud behind his head. “What are you doing here?”

“Obviously coming with you,” he says it like the most obvious thing in the world.

I blanch, face screwing into a frown. I tighten my hold on my bag protectively as if the blonde is going to pounce on it and the material I have gathered.

“You aren’t planning on stealing my story, are you? I won’t let you! Get out! We’ll settle this in a fist-fight!”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa relax! I’m not here to steal your story!” He raises his hands in defense motion at the sound of an actual threat in my voice. “Chief told me to work on this story together with you. I thought you knew!”

“Screw Coffee Bean – “

“Again, will you _stop_ calling our boss that!”

I grab Jubo by the shoulders and give him a good shake. “That boss of ours is the stingiest person alive!”

“Y-you’re o-one to talk!”

“If we work on this together, the money will be cut in half! I don’t want the half! Half! I want everything! I have to buy nice things for my family you know! Do you have _any_ idea how much rent you have to pay around here!?”

“W-what am I s-supposed to do then? I already said I will do this with you,” he tries to reason, voice shaky from dizziness.

I don’t stop shaking him. “Do the honorable thing and step out!”

“You aren’t the only one who needs this job to feed themselves!”

“Go do an article about moldy fruits for all I care! Why are you even taking a carriage!? Use a broom when you have one!”

“C-can’t w-we just be p-partners for n-now?”

“Partners my ass!” I finish and turn away with a pout, crossing my arms in stubbornness.

The rest of the people in the carriage are each looking at the scene with peculiar expressions varying from startled to downright annoyance. Even the owner, who also drives this thing, looks from the spot at the front to us with slight worry. No doubt they all think this is going to be a long trip, but none of them say a thing.

“I-is everything alright?” The owner asks carefully and appears to jump when I look at him.

“No, everything is not alright. Could you throw _this_ one out, kind sir?”

“O-oi, I’m a paying customer!”

“W-we’ll be leaving now, so I must ask you to settle down, please,” the man says – begs – and turns swiftly back around.

Being turned down like this agonizes me more and I start pulling on my messy hair. Jubo is a sensible man and a long-time journalist who has experience in the field. I hate to sometimes admit he is my senior. But no matter how talented or experienced, working alone is the best way for me to go… after all… _I want the money!_ The payment always depends on the quality of the news we bring and from where. This could have been my highest pay in months.

When the carriage jerks, I slump down in my seat, defeated. The gates open and within a few moments, we are outside the huge walls. There is no turning back, but the idea of tossing the man next to me in the middle of the road does cross my mind.

Once he recovers from being shaken like a ragdoll, Jubo looks at me with furrowed brows. “You aren’t thinking of kicking me off this carriage now, are you?”

“…No,” I manage out and look away.

His honey-colored eyes narrow. "There was definitely a pause there," he sighs and then leans back.

“If you’re worried about ending face first in the dirt, use a broom," I say without a real bite in my voice.

Jubo doesn’t take it the wrong way. He merely sighs for the second time and looks out at the mountain scenery which shows a vast landscape spreading before us.

“I thought that having traveling like this would be nice. Besides, there’s no hurry,” Jubo finishes with an easy-going smile.

That smile makes me frown in distaste.

 _Speak for yourself!_ I almost yell again but bite my tongue. I don't want to go into a rant about how my little brothers will come and visit soon. With another journalist, there is no telling how different my plans will go, and if this trip will be delayed or not. Those two expect me to be there to greet them upon arrival to the Royal Capital, but if I am not here… I shudder, uneasiness making my gut hurt.

They’re both grown men – boys, still boys – and can take care of themselves… I think. I shake my head, bristling from the images of how badly things could go down. _Don’t think about it! Just don’t think about it!_ If they haven’t changed their troublemaker ways, particularly one of them, I am worried if something will be broken at one point.

Suddenly, a hand taps me on the shoulder, and I turn to meet a pair of curious eyes. “Miss Hage, you keep on making weird faces. Is traveling with me that bad?”

I stiffen, looking away immediately. “I’ve always managed on my own, you know.”

“That’s true, but this is different,” he says seriously and lowers his voice so that other travelers won’t hear. “What were you thinking? We’re talking about a case of an epidemic here. Not to mention it's outside the capital – if you get infected there is no way they're gonna let you back in."

“I wasn’t planning on returning if that happened,” I say back honestly and keep my eyes on the road the horses trot on. “Besides, the information we have so far only points out that they _suspect_ epidemic. There is a chance something else goes on in that village.”

“What proof do you have that this is the case?” Jubo asks disbelievingly, crossing his arms. It is a sign that he feels bothered.

I glance at him and then turn my gaze away again. “Nothing,” I admit but then flinch when the sound of a palm meeting a face reaches my ears. “But neither does anyone else on the epidemic.”

“People are getting sick, Hage, what else should be proven?”

“The cause of course,” I state the same way he did about coming with me – completely serious. I glance to the sides, noting that everyone is busy holding their own conversation to pay attention to us. “But if this is really epidemic, we should report it nonetheless.”

Jubo doesn’t appear too keen on the idea. “Again, _why_ do you want to do this?”

“I should be rather asking why _you_ wanted to tag along,” I counterattack and give him a pointed look. “Coffee Beans didn’t threaten to turn your office into a closet again, did he?”

“No, he did not. I came because I’m worried about you.”

Without meaning to, I scoff and ignore the offending expression forming on his face. We have known each other long enough, to the point where I can afford to act like this. Back to looking out at the road, I play with the straps of my bag, slightly annoyed myself.

Journalists in our company work mostly alone. That much is obvious. But whenever I seem to take a case outside of the Royal Capital, Jubo is always there with me. Whether his boss has ordered it or not. The longer trips I take, the more persistent he becomes. When you write stories and gather information, there will always be a risk depending on the things you look for. One of our journalists went to look into a huge forest fire a year back and was injured during that time, but nobody went after her.

Perhaps the blonde feels responsible for me because he is the one who taught me at the beginning of this life. The same goes for the chief of the newspaper company… somehow, they both make me feel like I never left Hage village. There is care, but at the same time, it suffocates me.

Cold thoughts slither forward like snakes. They sink their fangs into me and pour venom in. Jubo pities me, is what I have always concluded. This is why he took the carriage and not a broom because I would have refused a lift from him. No matter how many times we have been through this, he and the others who know about me don’t stop giving me this kind of treatment.

**_“He’s mocking you.”_ **

I bite down on my lower lip. The skin is dry and stings.

“Give me seventy-five percent of the money this case will give us, and I’ll stop being angry,” I say finally, swallowing everything else I want to tell him.

The blonde stiffens. “That leaves me with just twenty-five percent.”

“Yeah, so? I decided to do this story first, you’re just butting in,” I accuse without looking at him, hands clenched into fists. _Maybe I should really kick him off this thing._

Before I can move forward with the decision, the horses at the front let out loud cries.

The carriage comes to an unexpected halt and everyone within it holds onto their seats with surprised faces. I clutch my bag; the stop has made us all slide an inch or two to the sides and Jubo’s entire weight is nearly crushing me.

“W-what’s going on?” An elderly man cries out, adjusting his hat that has fallen over his eyes.

Curious, in the middle of being turned into a sandwich and slightly startled, I turn and crack open the cloth serving as a cover for the carriage. When I peek out, Jubo grunts and tells me to stick my head back in, but I swat his arm as an answer. I am not worried, though he is. This carriage hasn’t even come down the mountain yet and with such closeness, to the capital, I do not expect to find anything serious going on.

What I see though, makes me a bit unsure about my judgment. I can't make out if the owner is in trouble or this is just a random stop. He is talking with a man – an extremely tall one.

I feel almost intimidated by the stranger, but I have also seen worse.

He is a gruff looking man with a single cigarette hanging lazily from his mouth. What makes the owner of the now still wooden carriage shake though, is the muscly tall build and the sword hanging from the larger man’s hip. I stiffen myself from seeing such a thing, but then take another look at the facial features. There is nothing much nicer about them – gruff with stubble and narrow eyes – but the almost bored look breaks the image of a threatening bandit.

Jubo tugs on my shirt, but I swat his arm away for the second time.

“Stop it. Come back here,” he hisses quietly, no doubt worrying that his junior would soon fall off. If he saw the real reason for the stop, he would definitely yank me back.

Several people are whispering amongst themselves inside too, but it is as if the man hears that one urgent order from my fellow journalist and turns his head. Our eyes meet and my fingers dig into the edges of the carriage.

_Calm._

He isn’t really reacting to spotting me. The bored expression doesn’t even twitch and those dark eyes blink only once.

Then, he raises his hand in a silent greeting, like seeing a familiar face in the middle of a street. After that strange interaction though, he turns back to the other man speaking frantically.

"L-like I t-told you, sir, w-we don’t have any room i-in our carriage.”

I frown and slip back in. Jubo let’s out a sigh of relief, but I pay no attention when he starts reprimanding me. _He’s lying –_ I see a few spaces where that tall man could fit right into. Despite his slightly intimidating presence, he hadn’t scowled or smirked at me like many other backwater thugs. The owner’s concern is obvious, but…

A familiar gut sensation spreads and my frown deepens. This must not be my imagination. The man has somewhat of a familiar presence, but it does not make me uneasy. In fact, I feel more uneasy about the fact that he is being refused a ride.

The calmness I felt from the swordsman fresh in my mind, I grab my bag, stand up, and jump out. 

“Ah, Miss Hage, where are you going?” The blonde journalist calls out to me, now he is in danger of falling off by leaning over the edge.

I look over my shoulder quickly. “I’ll be back.”

Despite approaching, the tall man doesn’t turn his head this time. He keeps on listening and speaking to the other man and the two of them are the parallel opposites. Both in appearance and attitude.

They both, however, turn to look at me, when I clear my throat. I stand just a few feet away or so. At least close enough to see that the top of my head barely reaches the swordsman’s chin and the bottom of his cigarette.

The owner’s sweaty face turns paler in panic. “A-ah, I apologize for t-the delay miss. W-we will be leaving soon, so – “

I cut him off with a small smile, before craning my neck to look at the other man. “Do you want a ride?”

Somewhere in the back, I think I hear Jubo making choking sounds and hissing my name. The latter reminds me of a snake trying to slither away, but the carriage owner’s sounds are silent screams. Both of them are certainly making interesting faces, but I ignore them in favor of looking into the grey eyes. _Huh, they aren’t black._

The man blinks lazily, much like when he greeted me earlier. “Yes, but it seems your ride is full.”

“No, it’s not,” I say and continue smiling. Although, my facial muscles are starting to hurt.

“That so?” He asks and glances at the man sitting next to us. But then he looks back down at me. Seeing the smile still on my face, he returns it with a slowly forming grin. “Mind if I hop in?”

“Sure, you can sit next to me,” I say, keeping my sweaty hands on my bag. When we keep eye contact for a second or so, I look at the shaking owner. "It's fine with you, right?”

“U-unfortunately, he d-doesn’t seem to have any m-money,” he answers with a small smile that comes from the thought of not taking in this stranger.

This, however, doesn’t stop or discourage me. Or change my opinion. “I can pay for him.”

I ignore the sound of souls leaving bodies from inside and outside the carriage. All I see and focus on is the bored-looking, but grinning, man next to me.

* * *

“So, may I ask where you’re going, Mr. Bear?”

The question cuts right through the tense and awkward atmosphere in the carriage. Nothing has happened so far – nobody has died, gotten sliced up, or beaten – but the other travelers are looking at the black-haired man like he’s a bomb ready to explode. Or they don’t look at him at all, just sweat awkwardly in their respective seats.

He _does_ make the rest of us look like mouses, though. Like I promised, he sits next to me and another man who purposely has inched away. This makes him and the rest occupying the same row squeeze into a corner, but they are ready to do that rather than staying near the large man.

Mr. Bear is still smoking, but the prickling scent hasn’t made anyone braver to ask him to stop it. His head hovers above all of us and he is large enough to take a space enough for two people.

This doesn’t stop me, though. Jubo’s hand on my arm gives a warning squeeze and the rest of the travelers flinch at the sound of my voice. Many lose some color on their faces.

Grey eyes look down. “Huh? Mr. Bear?”

“You’re as big as one,” I nod without hesitation.

Again, he does that slow blink. “Can you even read the mood?”

“Mostly yes, but sometimes you should just ignore it,” I say and don’t look away. “Why were you outside the capital? Were you going to walk down all the way to the Common Realm?”

“What kind of crazy shit wants to do all that walking? No, I was planning on flying down,” he sighs, and a trail of smoke comes out. “But my broom got destroyed by an _idiot_.”

“Oh,” I let out, but then frown in confusion. “Why didn’t you buy another one?”

“I’m in debt,” he says it casually with no hint of shame.

I snort and cover my mouth when he looks at me. “S-sorry, but it is strange when you tried to hitch a ride like you did.”

He shrugs. “It works for others."

“You were about to be left behind, though.”

At that, the corner of his mouth twitches up. "Got my ass saved by you, though.”

I am about to comment on that, when Jubo has had enough and pulls me closer, eyes wide and frantic. “Will you quit getting all friendly with him!”

“Why?” I ask, even though I know that he’s afraid of Mr. Bear. It is clear from all the sweat gathered upon his brow. Messing with him is just fun.

This man isn’t scary, I want to reason, but know it will fall on deaf ears. I do not mind his presence. Sure, it was awkward at the beginning, but seeing him conversating with me has so far shown nothing but a civil, if not a bit sarcastic and rough personality. I do not even mind when his bare arm brushes against mine when the carriage jerks

Honey-colored eyes glare at me. “Don’t you give me that innocent look!”

I smile a bit. “He’s interesting.”

"Don't go picking strangers off the side of the road like pets!" He whispers angrily at me but then freezes. His eyes are looking at Mr. Bear over my shoulder again.

“What’re you whispering there for?” The large man asks, giving the smaller one a sharp look. He looks irritated, but the second Jubo shrinks back and I look up the dark expression is gone. "Not many would help out a stranger as you did. What's this in for you?"

Admitting to myself that this all must come off as strange to everyone in here, some color rises to my cheeks. “I’m a journalist, so I just followed my gut.”

Mr. Bear’s eyes flash with some kind of emotion, but his face doesn’t change. “And what did your journalist's gut tell you?”

“… Not sure. You just seemed interesting,” I admit and look down, feeling a bit like a silly child, which is not a new feeling. Anyone who hears about my strange ways makes me feel like this.

As expected, he snorts and takes another inhale from the cigarette. “Interesting, huh. That’s a first.”

Not being able to handle the blood rushing to my head – my action _does_ sound stupid when said out loud – I quickly change the subject. “You didn’t answer my question about where you’re going.”

“Someplace called the Whoosh village," he rubs the back of his head. "Not really sure what to expect, though."

My face brightens and I lean a bit closer. “That’s where we are going! Are you visiting someone?”

“Nah. I’ve a job to do there,” he answers, not minding the prodding like most of the people. “Are all journalists this nosy?”

His face frowns, but there is no anger in his voice. He sounds like he is simply making an offhanded comment, and this encourages me further.

“Usually, yes,” I say and point at the blonde next to me. “Although, Moldy Banana here is going through a dry spell.”

Mr. Bear lets out a snort, the cigarette nearly flying off his mouth. He looks at Jubo who has further slumped down in his seat. “Oi, that’s some interesting name you got there. I pity you.”

Jubo's ears turn red and he manages to gather the courage to look up. "It's _not_ my name! My name is Jubo Ainsworth!”

“Oh, is that so. Nice to meet you then, Moldy Banana.”

My mood brightens at the sound of Mr. Bear using the nickname I gave. As the complete opposite, the man on the other side of me just gets more agitated. Redness spreads from his neck to the blonde hairline at the top.

“I told you that’s not my name!”

Ignoring him, grey eyes turn back down and meet my eyes. “I didn’t catch your name.”

“Ah, I’m Rora Hage,” I say and reach out my hand to him in a friendly gesture. “Nice to meet you, Mr. Bear.”

He sighs and the stinging smell of smoke hits my nose in full force. His hand wraps around mine. It is large, callous, and warm. “That’s not my name, y’know.”

“Then, what is your name?”

He looks ready to answer, but then a frown crosses his brows. For a moment, he seems very troubled and I wonder if he won’t tell me… but the next words throw me off guard.

“I’ve gotta take a dump.”


	2. Sweet dreams

_It is hard to decide whether being such a tight-knit community is wonderful or annoying. Within the church it is cramped – you have got to share certain things that are privilege to others. Everyone knows everyone here; you eat, work, do chores, and sleep together. Of course, no matter where you try to go, a bunch of mountains surround you like walls closing in._

_At times it is nice. There is always somebody to look out for you._

_When you are a teenager, it is a tad bit harder to continue the monotonous pattern. At least, that is how I felt for a long time. I hate feeling like I was being suffocated._

_“’Ora,” Asta’s voice calls out to me sleepily. He is fighting against the tiredness, head nodding back and forth as his large green eyes stare forward in stubbornness._

_Internally, I am praying he will go to sleep. “Yes, Asta?”_

_“Read it,” he yawns, small droplets gather to the corners of the eyelids. “again.”_

_“Pwease?” Yuno unfortunately joins him, his voice matching the ashen-haired boy's._

_I purse my lips, turning to fix my gaze on a lump a few feet away. “Father?”_

_An exasperated snore is the only answer I get. I frown, knowing that the old man is faking it, so he doesn’t have to entertain these kids. Half of me wants to throw the old book I am holding at his head, but luckily for him, I am too tired to do so much as rising up from the bed. I will remember this, though._

_“I’ve already read this to you once,” I start calmly, but hope that the stern look will do the trick. “How many more times do you want to hear this story anyway?”_

_Yuno leans closer from the left side of the bed, his head rests against my arm. "One more, Rora.”_

_“Asta’s supposed to be the demanding one,” I huff and look down at the said boy. “You must be rubbing off on him.”_

_He doesn’t give a comment to that, follows the black-haired boy's lead, and lets his head fall against my right side. The sight of two little boys clinging to their only hope for a late bedtime story could melt an arctic environment. Naturally, it melts the one surrounding my heart and I start reading._

_It is the same story they have heard at least a hundred times by now. And you can tell that this is being read for the second time. The sound of my voice is scratchy and low, rereading this same book has become tedious. I want to do nothing more than sleep but equals weights on left and right keep me upright. And the more I read, the more awake they become. The sight of their eyes widening whenever a certain passage comes makes me regret agreeing to this. If they get too excited by this, they won’t ever sleep._

_I see no reason to be overly enthusiastic by this old story. Nor why a couple of children less than five are so transfixed by it._

_“The world was covered by deep, deep darkness – oh, Yuno, I can stop reading if this scares you too much,” I look down at the bright eyes filled with tears in sympathy. My heart aches._

_“No way! Read it!” Asta exclaims, startling both me and Father – who definitely isn’t sleeping now._

_“Don’t yell!” I scold and make a threatening gesture to close the book, but Yuno reaches out and clutches my arm._

_“N-no, I’m not,” he sniffs, “cryin’.”_

_"Sure you aren't," I drawl but such an innocent mind misses the sarcasm, and a hint of relief spreads on his wet face. This is one of the moments where I know that I can’t be nasty to these kids and pat his soft locks gently. “Listen, there’s no need to be scared of monsters in books.”_

_“Yeah! I’ll beat them up for ya!” Asta declares, no signs of earlier tiredness anywhere in sight._

_I give him a pointed look. “There’ll be no beating anyone because no monster is coming after you two.”_

_“B-but what about the book?” Yuno asks, pointing at the picture about the malicious beast that surely will give him nightmares._

_Green eyes turn up accusingly. “Ya told us that it exists.”_

_“I told you it_ existed _.”_

_The past tense does not do much in calming down the boy on my left._

_“Which means…”_

_The picture drawn in the book is hideous and childish at the same time. The white body is long and lanky, the razor-sharp teeth angular and exaggerated. The artist who drew this captured the chaos surrounding the creatures as a mess of colors and flames._

_“There are no more monsters left in this world.”_

* * *

The ride was… interesting, to say the least.

Carriage rides are understandably not my favorite forms of transport because of how numb my legs and bottom become. There are almost no stops and you have to wait a few hours for one. Not to mention most of the strangers don’t strike a conversation so it will usually be very awkward and silent if anyone makes eye contact.

However, contrary to the norm, this ride was one of the ‘pleasant’ experiences I have had. By pleasant though, I mean it hasn’t been a bad or good one. It was still as uncomfortable as I remember, but this time around I had someone to talk to… Or at least for a while. There is only so much you can have a conversation about when you barely know someone. Mr. Bear brushed off the awkwardness between us, but I started to feel like suffocating.

Asking the right questions is something I have been taught to do. But when the trip is over, I barely know anything about the swordsman besides the fact that he is probably being searched by a _blundering_ idiot. Whoever they are, I slightly pity them. The face the large man makes when thinking about them is quite dark and pissed.

The ‘idiot’ is perhaps the same one who broke the broom Mr. Bear had.

As soon as the ride stops at a village, every person climbs down, gives their brief gratitude, and then scurries away. But unlike them, Jubo and my new acquittance, the three of us stay next to the carriage. This isn’t our stop.

“T-this is u-unfortunately as far a-as I can take you,” the carriage owner says apologetically, but while he is talking to me his eyes keep on bouncing up at something behind my shoulder. “U-usually I-I c-could take the c-carriage to the Whoosh village, b-but the r-roads – “

“Save your breath, old man. It’s fine,” Mr. Bear cuts him off and starts walking down a road he has shown us.

I want to follow him – my instincts as a journalist are _tingling_ – but the ground has glued my feet. The stop in a settlement near our destination wasn’t in my plans and it is bothersome. The rest of the people who left earlier didn’t seem that surprised when it was announced that this is the final stop.

“Um, sir, you were saying something about the roads?”

Now that the larger man is gone, the elderly looks much more composed and wipes sweat off his wrinkly forehead. “Y-yes. The roads to Whoosh village have been closed for some time now.”

“Eh!? Then how are we supposed to get there?” Jubo asks, incredulous, and thinking that the tense trip was for nothing.

The carriage owner waves his hands hastily. “D-don’t misunderstand! P-people can still go and leave as they like, but larger carriages or merchants are not permitted in. That’s why I c-can’t take you there.”

I frown. “But you said at the gates that you could take me there. _All_ the way.”

He flinches and seems a bit uncomfortable but then points the direction Mr. Bear headed to. “I apologize, but Whoosh village is less than a half-hour away if you walk there. Just following this road will lead you straight there.”

Unsure whether to feel relieved or annoyed that I have been cheated out of my money, I turn to look at the said road. The strange swordsman’s shape is about to disappear behind a hill, and he keeps on walking calmly, clearly not bothered at all that he wasn’t taken all the way by carriage like it was supposed to. This strikes an idea in my head. _Perhaps he knew about this beforehand?_

“Could you possibly give us more information? The two of us are journalists and we would like to get a story,” Jubo asks, full-on work mode as he has taken his notepad and pencil out.

The man seems a bit surprised, but not offended. “U-uh, sure.”

The blonde nods and his instruments of work float next to him as he begins throwing the questions. “Do you perhaps know what might be the reason for this? When did the village close?”

“Hmm… I-I think it was around a week ago,” the man says, rubbing his beard covered chin in thoughts. “I haven’t been there in a while, b-but on my last visit, about a month or so, there wasn’t anything… well, I can only say that the closing came as a surprise. If I can’t do business there, I don’t truly have a r-reason to be nosy either.”

 _He doesn’t know?_ A new clue then. The informant I got said that the news about the sudden illness falling on the village hasn’t been revealed on a larger scale. It appears he wasn’t mistaken on that account. This man doesn’t even question much why his usual route has been disrupted.

“Aren’t you curious?” I end up asking and his eyes turn to me. “About the Whoosh village – why it was partially closed, that is.”

“I admit b-being a little puzzled, but…" he frowns as if searching for the right words but then shrugs. "Someone from this place just told me that they’re dealing with seasonal cold and don’t w-want to spread it.”

That is one of the most moderate loads of dirt I have heard in my life. An entire village closing off their suppliers and larger scale visitors because of something like a cold? It feels both ridiculous and exhilarating – there is a secret being hidden and I want to dig it up. And I feel like I have to do so now or lose the chance.

“Moldy Banana – “

The floating notebook and pencil stagger in the air. "Like I have said thousand times over, that is not my – "

“You can go and ask around from this village,” I cut him off in return and pull the strap of my bag over my shoulder. “I’ll go ahead to the Whoosh.”

"W-wait a minute! Aren't we supposed to do this together?" He asks hand raised as if to take a hold of my arm and keep me from escaping.

I easily avoid his reach. “We are – things will go faster if we spread and combine our findings later.”

“You might be right about that, but…” he trails off, clearly not knowing what else to say to make a solid argument.

“See ya later!” I say before he has a chance to come up with anything and sprint. I hear his yells, but they are lost to the wind.

This is exciting, as well as slightly worrisome. Being suicidal is dangerous and is not mentioned in the attributes to be working as a writer. I am _not_ someone who would like to barge into an infested – possibly highly epidemic – a town without precaution. If they asked me to leave I would, after persuasion of course, and at the first sign of danger I would take off. However, the disease is not a threat you can spot easily _…_ Maybe I am an idiot.

But if the village is in serious danger, then so is the rest of the places surrounding it. I just know leaving things the way they are would just gnaw my consciousness. Nobody else is reacting; incident like this is not being spread. Things will get messy if the silence continues. I meant what I said – this will be over faster if Jubo and I search from different perspectives.

“Oi! Mr. Bear! Wait up!” I call out as soon as I see the familiar form appear behind the hill again and pick up my pace.

He halts and turns to look over his shoulder. “Oh, journalist.”

I am about to correct him to call me by my name, but then brush it off, coming to a halt next to him. I have never really called pretty much anyone by other than the nicknames I give, so I don’t expect the same from him.

“W-we’re going the same way,” I pant and straighten up. I know I must look ridiculous – wild curly hair that has not been washed or combed for a few days in a messy braid and sticking to every direction.

“Where’s the lanky blonde guy?" He asks and looks down at the road as if expecting Jubo to appear hot on my heels.

“H-he’s going to gather intel from t-that village. I’ll check t-the Whoosh by myself,” I explain, slowly gaining control of my breathing. “Y-you don’t mind the company, do you?”

“Nah,” he shakes his head, the cigarette still between his teeth. “Do what you want.”

On the inside, I am cheering and jumping from not being turned down. However, on the outside, I give a smile and continue walking peacefully next to him. Or at least try to do the latter, because the man's legs are a lot longer than mine and one step is a strive for me. My heart is beating fast and not from the much-needed exercise.

A new story meant a new article, which all equal more income. And for some reason, with this tall man… I can sense excitement coming up ahead.

* * *

Excitement comes in a form of a tightknit but small town. Because there have been moments in life, when I have done news on black mold found in an apartment, this is not necessarily the blandest scene for me to form a picture.

Mr. Bear surprisingly doesn’t comment, when he sees me take a small notebook out of my bag and I begin drafting the brief thoughts that enter my head from this sight. He stays next to me, as the scribbling continues, which must be a strange sight. Nobody comes out of their house to complain or ask what we are doing just standing around there.

The entire place is almost deadly quiet.

I glance up from the notebook to see a curtain shift behind one of the windows and a human-like shape disappearing back inside. I add that to my notes.

My hand stops moving, and I glance up at Mr. Bear curiously. “Didn’t you say you have a job here?”

“Yeah, but it seems like nobody is willing to come out and talk,” he says, eyes strained forward before they slide down to the notebook.

Protective and a bit shy about the notes, I turn slightly away and hug the notebook closer to my chest. I pretend to add minor details about the things I see, even though I have no idea why I am doing so. I am used to Jubo or some other from the workplace taking a glance at my works, but not a stranger. This has nothing to do with being self-conscious, though… I just become squeamish when someone looks at my work.

“Hey, you mentioned being a journalist,” he begins in a nonchalant tone and draws my eyes back up to him. His expression is calm – almost back to being bored – but his grey eyes are bright. “I think I recall seeing your name on a few papers.”

I smile, my hand nearly stilling for the second time, somewhat awkwardly, and continue writing. “Really?”

He is silent for a while and the smell of the cigarette smoke hits my nose a few times. It is a bit annoying, but bearable since I am too distracted with writing to actually notice. If I could bear with it within a cramped carriage, then I could do so when standing on top of a hill where fresh air blows.

“Yeah, quite a few times actually,” he finally says and gives me a look. “You wouldn’t happen to be that whacky writer who went and climbed herself up a noble’s balcony just to get a statement a few years back, would you?”

It feels like a ton of bricks has been dropped on top of my head. “W-whacky.”

“Huh? You really are her?” The question is asked like he hadn’t expected to have guessed correctly. Then, the corners of his lips twitch up and he bursts out laughing. “I see, I see! So it was you who ruffled their feathers such way back then! Ha!”

Words don’t form properly on my tongue. “G-glad t-to hear that – ack!” My words are cut off by a strong smack to the back – it knocks the breath out of the lungs.

“Your articles never fail to crack me up! Keep up the good work!” He says with sincerity and continues laughing. There is no mocking or malice behind them, though.

The ringing in my ears calms down, but each slam from his palm has made me lean dangerously forward. “T-thank you, I w-will?”

Most of the people who have heard about the way I began as a journalist tend to give me strange looks. They are always either in disbelief or disturbed by the actions I have taken to get stories published. Besides the balcony incident that Mr. Bear mentioned, there are other things I have done to earn a rather peculiar reputation. I am either a disturbance in the city or an oddity. And I do admit that they have a point.

Over the years, I have learned not to take critique or ridicule the hard way. At times, I find it amusing. But being praised for almost getting myself killed is… It is strange and… startling.

“Um, pardon me.”

I would jump out of my skin if it weren’t for the fact that my back stings and I am barely able to keep myself up. Both of us freeze though and look up to see a woman with a concerned frown between her brows. A mass of straight blonde hair is mostly pulled back and hidden underneath a white scarf, which contrasts against her tanned skin.

She is the first sign of actual life in the Woosh village, but the bags under her eyes and pale plain clothes make her seem more like a withering ghost. The hem of the greyish brown dress brushes against her ankles from the breeze and blends in with the paste color of the buildings.

“Are you two lost?” She asks, voice just as careful as her demeanor.

Grey eyes meet mine before going back to the woman.

“No… at least I don’t think so,” I answer, confused why she would think so. Her hesitance just makes me suspicious of the location and I quickly collect myself. “This is the Whoosh village, correct? We were advised to follow the road.”

The woman's mouth opens but then closes. Her eyes dart between me and the taller man before shifting down. "No, this is indeed Whoosh… but – “

“Aina!” Another new voice yells out, cutting her off and shedding off a few shades of color from her face.

This time, a man approaches us from the heart of the village – forget about being a town, it is small enough to be a village – and glares sharply at the woman, Aina. Her hands are clasped in front of her and she looks like a child caught stealing. Or an employee caught being rude to the client – this example is something I can relate to.

“If we’d visitors, you should’ve _told_ me,” he scolds her, harshly. But when he looks at me and Mr. Bear, his attitude changes completely and he smiles. “I do apologize for making you wait. May I ask what business you have in our humble town?”

I do not like this man. The first impression may be misleading but they’re also important most of the time. Compared to the woman, his clothes are more… not exaggerated but definitely made out of finer fabric. It is the color of darker brown, almost red. He is surely someone important in this village – a leader figure. The harsh way he looked and spoke to Aina and then turned into a sweetly smiling diplomat just doesn’t sit well with me.

Not to mention, when the man steps closer strange smell waffles from him it takes every ounce of mental strength from me not to wrinkle my nose in an obvious manner. The smell is thick and moist and sickly perfume-like if that is enough to give a proper description. It is a stench of someone who went and bought an expensive perfume that they thought was expensive and popular and _bathed_ in it.

 _You can do this,_ I tell myself, fighting against nausea at the pit of my stomach. I would just need to introduce myself and –

“Ugh, you stink.”

My head whips up at the man next to me so fast it is nearly painful. He makes no effort whatsoever trying to hide the disdain and waves the cigarette in front of his nose in a warding-off way. The air has suddenly shifted to stillness and my mouth is just as immobile, even though I want to scream.

Even I have more tact than him.

The two strangers in front of us seem also shocked and the man’s jaw has dropped. The woman has covered her own mouth and her blue eyes are as wide as plates and full of panic.

I inch closer to Mr. Bear, flashes of hot and cold flaring on my skin. When I speak, it is in whispers. “That’s _not_ how you greet someone!”

The man quickly comes out of his stupor and lifts his nose up, looking at the taller swordsman with an insulted but wary way. “I b-beg your pardon? Who do you – who _are_ you?”

“I’m the man send here to do a job,” he says, but stops. Nobody misses how his grey eyes go from me to Aina in slow motion. “We should probably do this somewhere else, old man.”

The Whoosh man looks positively like an overblown flounder with his gaping mouth. “O-o-old m-man?”

“Oi, you,” Mr. Bear turns to Aina whose shoulders nearly reach her ears by now.

"Y-yes?" She stutters, clearly having an internal crisis about what to do with the sudden attention of the intimidating man.

A thumb is pointed at me. “Can you do a favor and answer some of her questions? She’s a reporter – “

“A _journalist_ ,” I correct.

He gives me a similar look to what I am used to getting. “That’s what I said.”

“No, you didn't. I don’t like the sound of ‘reporter’ as much as I do ‘journalist’,” I explain plainly with complete seriousness.

“But they’re basically the same thing. Isn’t it fine just calling you a reporter?”

 _He is like the rest._ I shake my head with a heavy sigh. “No, it isn’t!”

“What’s the big problem anyway?”

“The problem is the sound. Imagine if I called you Mr. Brown-and-Fluffy-mountain-animal, instead of Mr. Bear!”

There isn’t much to be impressed with so all I get is another dull stare. I may be getting a bit too daring with him because there is a slight twitch of a vein near his forehead. An awkward silence ensues, but he doesn’t move a muscle until frowning and looking at me like a creature who sprouted a tail.

“You’re weird,” he states. It is not a question.

Honestly, he is one to talk, which is what I should say in any other situation. The words don’t make me upset though, as he probably thinks. Instead, I smile widely. “Thank you!”

His frown deepens. “That wasn’t a compliment.”

“I will take it as such.”

He rubs the back of his head, like finally realizing what kind of woman he has been talking with for the past few hours. “Right, right, I’ll be goin’ now. Best of luck to you, _journalist_.”

I blink, but before I can answer he has the Whoosh man by the scruff of his neck – comical expressions spread on all of our faces as choking sounds fill the otherwise quiet air. Without care for the man or the alarming looks he receives, Mr. Bear begins walking off, like he knows where he is actually going. The poor helpless man in his grip can only trash around and make protesting noises.

The first thing my mind tells me is to go after him. He obviously has a very strange job to do here, if he can’t discuss it out here just as he had about his bowel movements in the carriage. The black-haired man has no shame – I am a living witness to that. But another part of me is screaming not to get involved more than is necessary. He didn’t pry into my business too much – I basically spilled him everything save for the reason why there are two journalists here. But this means that trying to get him to talk would uneven the unspeakable scores we have. None of us ask too many questions, none of our secrets get spilled out.

Still, a certain quirk has been tickling my mind since the moment I learned about his plans to travel to the same place as I. _What kind of sickness infested place hires a swordsman?_

“U-um, excuse me?” Aina’s thin voice snaps me back from making any wild theories. She has wrung the apron around her hips with her hands in probably what is a nervous habit. It is full of wrinkles.

“Yes?” I ask back, a bit put off why she is still here and talking to me. I point at the two men walking away – well, one is being quite literally _dragged_ away. “Shouldn’t you go after them?”

She bats her eyelashes twice, puzzled. “The good sir you travel with told me to… answer your questions?”

It is my turn to blink, the cogs in my head move rather slowly. But then it clicks. “Oh, yes, that – he isn’t really – we didn’t travel as much as end up in the same place together. I mean, sure, we traveled, but we are otherwise strangers. Although after you hear a lot about someone’s bathroom experience you might be past that stage,” I laugh awkwardly at the end, but then realize that my babbling has gotten out of hand and click my mouth shut.

Aina is once again wide-eyed. There is a peculiar expression of appalling and shock right there, but her mouth remains just as close as mine. I begin to sweat. _Way to go, what an introduction._

In a desperate effort to save my professional image, I give her a tight smile. “My name is Rora Hage and I am part of a newspaper company. Your name is miss Aina, right?”

She mutely gives a small jerk of her head. “Aina Rowan.”

“Nice to meet you then, Miss Willow," I dip my head in a greeting manner and hold my notepad and pencil a tad bit closer.

“Miss… Willow?” The blonde parrots, the sound is that anyone would make when getting off track.

I stiffen, all of my possessions nearly slip down from my grasp. _Shit!_ I bite my tongue, sweat trailing down from my forehead from the walk I have made here. I had no room to criticize Mr. Bear when I can’t keep my own habits in check.

“I-I mean, Miss Rowan,” I quickly make a save and smile sheepishly. “Are you comfortable answering a few questions out here or is there another place you’d prefer?”

For a moment, she seems lost, like not knowing an answer or how to behave. I watch this, already understanding a bit what a shy person this woman is despite how she appears to be a little older than me. There are a few lines on her forehead and the area around the mouth, but the scarf hides the possible sightings of greying hair. Although, the lines could be from stress or naturally appear with her down casted expression.

“If you don’t mind,” she begins and gestures towards a few houses, “we could talk in my home.”

 _That was easy._ I hide my surprise. I was expecting a bit more suspicion or questioning, but… who am I to look a gift horse in the mouth?

“Excellent.”

* * *

Unlike her outfit, the inside of her wooden house is filled with different colors. The carpet at the front is modest but as green as grass. It isn’t the only furniture around, though. Other carpets are either small and placed in a variety of places around the free space or hang from the walls as decoration. There is one clearly in the middle of beings made next to a window that draws my attention immediately.

"Did you make these?" I ask while sitting on a couch. Aina is in the middle of preparing drinks and brings them over with a wooden tray. My eyes stay on the bunch of textile work, though.

“Yes,” she says and sits down, the tray on a small table in front of us. Her voice wavers, a bit shyness to it. “I work as a carpetmaker. Because of the woods and livestock that we have, our village specializes in handmade clothes and decorations. We also often make furniture sold in the market around the Royal Capital."

I nod absentmindedly, already aware of this place’s main trade and livelihood gaining. “They’re quite good.”

“Thank you.”

An awkward silence ensues, but it doesn’t last for long. I have the notebook out once more and look at the tip of the pencil critically. I would need to sharpen it, but this will do for one interview.

“First of all, I want to assure you that your name won’t be posted unless I have your consent. You will remain anonymous,” I explain the basics of how this will work and Aina listens attentively. Her back is so straight that I unconsciously fix up my own sloppy posture. “It was pretty obvious on the outside that… this place is fairly quiet.”

The blonde purses her lips, hands balling into fists. “Yes… It has not always been the case, though.”

“Someone told me that the town was fine just a month ago,” I say, thinking back to the stuttering man at the carriage.

The woman’s expression sours. “It was, but… have you heard about the illness?”

“I know people have been collapsing lately and that epidemy is suspected.”

“Then,” blue eyes look up, “why did you come here?”

“This is my job,” I say, hiding the fact that I chose this assignment voluntarily. It will only make me sound crazier than it already is.

“…are you not afraid of catching the illness?" She asks, doubts clear on her face. There is an underlining skepticism on the devotion of the truth that journalists can have for their work.

Although, even back at the office, I am pretty much the only one who has done most of the crazy things over the years. With this in mind, I continue smiling. “Of course I am, but isn’t it important to tell the rest of the world in case the situation gets out of hand?”

Speaking of the situation getting out of hand, Aina could have the illness. She may be infected and neither of us has any idea. However, if either she or that arrogant looking man have it, I highly doubt that they would have just come marching out to greet us the way they did. There is still some kind of order to this place, at least from an outsider's perspective. People were definitely glancing out of their windows, but nobody stepped out. They must be confining themselves to limit the spreading… _or something else._

The tea she prepared is left untouched.

“When did this start?” I ask, ignoring the way sweat is starting to make my hands sticky.

“Hmm… I recall two – no. There was someone who collapsed exactly three weeks ago.”

“Who was it?”

“A woman called Jenna Yenkins. She is in the same profession with me,” Aina says, and her lower lip begins quivering. “After that, a few retired elderlies collapsed.”

“Could you give me a specific number? Also, how many have been infected?” I ask, too attached to these small details.

“Let’s see… I think it was four elders and… now the numbers have climbed to forty-two people.”

My writing stops. “Forty-two?” I echo and think of the number of houses surrounding us at this moment. “And how many people do you have in your town?”

“Around hundred and seventy-eight,” she answers, doing the same math that I am doing in her head.

I try not to let my uneasiness show. Instead, I scribble the numbers down and begin doing small calculations. What I get in the end is the fact that around one-fourth of this place has been proclaimed sick in a span of a few weeks.

“What are the symptoms?” I continue asking.

Despite her skin tone being tanned from the sun, the warm shade fades as she pales considerably. I take another note of this. She is clearly terrified. “They first collapse, and our doctor said t-that… I’m terribly sorry, but I can only tell you what I have heard. I've kept to myself mostly nowadays."

I smile calmly, even when on the inside I am anything but. “It’s alright. Just tell me everything you know. It could be important too.”

Aina nods, although my reassurance seems to only help her a bit. Her hands haven’t stopped clenching the hem of her dress since we started. “They… a neighbor told me that after they collapse, they wake up at some point screaming. Apparently, the timing depends on a person, and there is no telling when it happens.”

She stays silent and when I have nothing else to write I look up in confusion. “So… those are all the symptoms?”

The blonde nods solemnly. “And when they scream, they won’t stop either. The doctor has had to empty out his supplies preparing sleeping draughts for the ill so that they won’t start thrashing around again. At one point, they continued screaming and throwing themselves around until they bled… but even then, they didn’t stop.”

 ** _“Madness,”_** a voice hisses next to my ear. The hairs on my back stand up and the pencil in my hand nearly snaps from the sudden tight grip I have on it.

“The doctor says that it might be a disease that affects the brain, but… others say it is because of magic.”

This is it – there are two possibilities here, just as I had hoped. I keep on sitting on the edge of the couch. If Aina were to turn and look, she would see how my eyes won’t blink. They are wide, glowing with interest, and suicidal madness.

“What makes them say that?” I ask airily. Our voices have become quiet without us noticing immediately. It is like being afraid that the very air has ears and will bring sickness to us.

“There was – no, still is one woman in our village who is an expert at sensing magic. She told us that something was going on with the people falling ill, but… she too collapsed not long after and can’t be asked what else she noticed,” Aina finishes and for the first time reaches one of the two cups she provided. The tea in it has smoke, but it has obviously cooled down. The water in it shakes in her hands when she brings the rim to her lips and takes a sip. 

_Falling unconscious… waking up screaming… trashing around…_ I go through the small list of symptoms with a frown between my brows.

“And… these people can’t communicate?”

Blue eyes turn to me with sadness. “No. They sound so afraid and in pain that none of the words get through them. It is like they are awake but still suffer from nightmares.”

**_“A curse so bitter.”_ **

I swallow thickly. “Why did you agree to this interview so easily?”

“Eh?” She looks surprised for a moment.

My expression does not waver. “How do you know you aren’t infected?”

“That’s…” her gaze wavers, sliding down to the cup in her arms. “Honestly… t-there is one more symptom…”

She is shaking again. She was doing so earlier, but now it comes back tenfold. The tremors are so bad, to the point where the cup needs to be lowered and placed back on the table. The white scarf on top of her head hasn’t been taken off and it mostly shadows her face from view. It is hard to catch a sight of the blue eyes again.

“Miss Hage, forgive me, but…” Aina begins again and crosses her hands in a way you do when praying. “If t-this disease is indeed caused by somebody, we’re all a-afraid of getting it. Th-things have calmed down a b-bit when we isolated ourselves, but… I am not sure how l-long we can take this.”

The anxieties are eating her. The slight figure and bags under the blue eyes have a stable reason now. Which makes it even more surprising that she was the first one to come and greet me and Mr. Bear. That may as well be part of her character, seeing how hospitable she has been so far. Not to mention she keeps on spewing every bit of information out without hesitation. When I asked about the carpets, she was more than happy to promote her home, too.

“… what’s the final symptom?” I finally ask when her hesitance leaves on the edge.

"Black spots," she says and touches her arm, gesturing it at me. Her sleeve is drawn back, the tanned skin beneath it specked with freckles. "They appear on the body – arm, chest, legs, torso – but the place varies with individuals as does the infection rate. At first, they look like moles, but… then the person collapses very soon after getting them.”

Again, I write what I am hearing down on the paper. “How soon is ‘soon’?”

Aina bites her lower lip. “A friend of mine got them on her hand. They weren’t there the morning she got sick. But almost as quickly as they were noticed she collapsed. I would think this is the same with the rest, too… After her, I haven’t really gone out or contacted anyone I know. Because I live this close to the road, Mr. Hobble told me to keep on the watch for visitors."

_That’s why she came to greet us._

“Mr. Hobble… the guy who I saw earlier?” I ask, recalling how he acted like he was her boss.

She gives a short nod. “Yes.”

“Is he important here or something?”

“He is the wealthiest man in Whoosh,” she tells me and looks out of her window. “I guess you could call him the leader.”

I want to snort but keep my opinions to myself. “Has he taken any action regarding this situation? Has he sent for help?”

“Oh, yes,” Aina nods eagerly, a spark of hope lighting up in her eyes. “He told me that a word to the Royal Capital was sent less than a week ago.”

That may as well be how my informant got the wind about this case. But it is still surprising – not only does it seem that a serious situation over here is being slowly processed, but Whoosh’s reaction is no better. They waited around two weeks and so many people have apparently collapsed if Aina’s numbers do not lie.

The frown on my face is so deep that when I try to relax it hurts the facial muscles. There are knots in my gut, tightening with every passing second.

More like a machine than a human, I detach my fingers from the pencil and notebook, placing them back into the bag. With the same jerky movements, I take the cup offered to me and take one huge gulp. The drink isn’t cold yet, but not warm either. The taste is like any other tea I have had – bitter.

“Thank you for your time, Miss Will – Miss Rowan. This has been very informative,” I thank the blonde with a fake smile, heart thundering behind the ribcage. “Could I ask one more thing?”

“Yes?” She stands up with me, eyes attentive but red around the rims. Her form is lithe and looks ready to fall like a tree.

“Where would I find the sick?”

Wings could sprout out of my back and Aina’s jaw could not drop any lower. 

* * *

The entire healing ward is noticeably bigger than the rest of the houses surrounding. It is two times wider than a regular house and the roof reaches above the other buildings next to it. But at the same time, it is old. The paint on the falls is flaky when you get close and as soon as the door is opened a stuffy air hits your face in full force.

I half-expect someone to come running out of their house to try and stop me.

Besides the scent of the wood, I smell sweat and herbs through a mask I have packed for this trip. I am not really sure what kind of protection it will provide me, or if it can even give any at all.

I have not made it two steps inside when the door is closed behind me and a row of people filled beds are before me. I stop breathing, imagining every dangerous and sick particle in the air just slithering in through the mask and down the nostrils. _I chose this._ Despite acknowledging it, I do not reach out for my notebook.

It feels like I have stepped into a funeral home rather than a healing ward.

Each individual is either old, young, or somewhere in between. They all have their eyes closed and faces are motionlessly facing the ceiling. Those same faces are pale though, and a few have long red scratches along their cheeks. Signs of self-harm appear more and more on the sleeping bodies the deeper into the ward I look.

Thick bandages cover some of the arms. Others have their heads wrapped up. But even when my boots thump against the stone floor not one pair of eyes flutters open.

On a few of them, I can see the black marks Aina mentioned. I do not dare to get closer to any of them though. From where I stand, they do appear to be like moles, but they are so black that the area they cover might as well be dead skin.

Forget about the skin. It is like the people in here are already de –

A sharp inhale. Both from the individual who marches into the open space and from me.

“ _What_ are you doing here?" An old man wearing a white coat asks accusingly, the same wariness I saw on Aina and Mr. Hobble.

He does not appear threatening, physically at least. He is old with hair matching his outfit, but the hardness in his eyes makes me almost take a step back.

I force the heart that has jumped up dangerously close to my throat back down to its place. “Are you the doctor?”

He looks around in exasperation. “Do you see anyone else wearing a coat?”

There is a part of me that wants to snap back. However, much like Aina, he has bags under his eyes, too. The difference is that they are more prominent.

Much like I am sizing him up, the man looks up from my bag, to the mask, and to my eyes. He frowns immediately. "You're not a local."

I give a tiny nod. “I am a journalist. I came here to make an article about the village.”

The doctor scoffs. “An article, eh? What kind of article could you possibly rip from this?” He gestures at the beds around us. “Get out. I’m busy.”

“I really want to know about the illness,” I speak firmly. Years of rudeness and being chased out of properties may have given me a thicker skin, but it doesn’t mean I like this treatment. My hands are getting clammy again and I have a half-in mind to do as he says.

Again, the man scoffs. “Well, I can tell you now is that the mask is useless.” Ice spreads along with my limbs and I slowly take off the suffocating thing. However, I must be more on the alert than I feel, because the doctor narrows his eyes and shakes his head. “It’s best to get out now lass. This ain’t a game.”

“I know that, but nobody is sending information about a possible epidemy forward,” I say while managing to control my voice. It has always been hard to do, especially when under emotional pressure.

“And what good would that do?” He asks back and crosses his arms, glancing at the bed next to him. “I bet the capital would just isolate us further.”

“You don’t think that would be the best course of action?” I ask, not taking the notepad out this time. It is best to store this in my head and write it down later.

“Depends on where the line between protection and letting us rot in here lies,” he states bluntly, weariness heavy on his voice. “Nothing but hysteria will be brought.”

My back straightens, hands tightening around the strap of my bag. I can _feel_ the unease. “Can’t it be different? What if there’s a way to help you?”

He doesn’t say anything, just turns around, walking into a room filled with bottles of herbs and a stinging smell of medicine. I follow him, taking the silence and the fact he isn’t ushering me out again as a good sign. When I stop by the door, he slumps down on a chair. He begins to grind and crush something in a bowl and watches himself not to hit one of the dozens of bottles lined on the table next to him.

I look around again, the silence is eerie. “Where's the others?"

“If you mean nurses or other doctors, I’m the only one here,” he answers and pours water over the mixture. “I can prepare the proper dose of sleeping drought myself.”

“But what if…” I trail off, not really sure how to phrase the next question. The entire length of my back tingles, because I know there are people behind me who could go on a rampage at any minute. “What if one of the patients wakes up?”

“Not going to happen," he says without any hesitation, letting small wind magic twirl the greenish liquid in a bottle. “I make sure of that.”

“You said earlier that masks aren’t useful. How contagious is the disease, exactly?” I continue asking, taking a chance to trust his word.

The man shakes his head. “It depends on the chance. You either get it or won’t. I’ve been trying to figure out an antidote or a possible way to let the patients speak and give us clues, but… so far, there’s nothing else I can do. If the cause for the illness is not found, then creating medicine is like trying to find a needle in a haystack.”

Slowly, I turn back around and look through the open door. I have a direct view of one of the beds and the man lying on it. His mouth is patched and parted. His chest rises softly up and down, but the paleness on the cheeks makes him look weak and barely hanging in there.

I start, a jolt in me sends goosebumps down my arms. I feel cold in here and wrap my arms around myself in what I hope is a casual manner. _A random chance… no possibilities for an antidote…_ This truly sounds less and less like a common disease and more like a curse. This does not feel right. I _refuse_ to believe that these people ended up like this without a reason.

There must be something that links all of them together.

“This might sound… odd,” I begin, pursing my lips but still trying to appear composed. ‘Odd’ does not even fully describe what I am about to ask. “But would it be alright if I take a look at the patients? As long as it is safe, that is.”

The look of pure disbelief smoothens the older man’s face from wrinkles. “Are all reporters like _you_?”

 _A journalist,_ I want to correct him but stay silent. I have no idea yet if the suggestion sounds strange or horrifying to him. Sometimes it is difficult to distinguish those two, at least they are when I am concerned, or so I have been told.

All I can give the doctor is a small tight smile. “I’d like to think so.”

He snorts, finally a sound that is not a scoff. But the quirk of his lips drops as soon as it is there. “I fail to see how letting a whimsy reporter lose on sickly patients will benefit this community.”

 _Whimsy._ Much like with Mr. Bear, it is like a boulder drops on my head. Granted, I have been called worse. “I’m _not_ going to give them a full body examination,” I begin and swallow the lump in the back of my throat. “And I am not going to touch them either. I’m asking if it is alright for me to stay a while and take a look at them… from a safe distance.”

“Forget it,” he bluntly refuses and waves at me vigorously. “Get out, now.”

_Why you little –_

Heat spreads as red blotches across my body and my lips form a thin line. This is nothing new. I could handle this, is what I think to myself in fuming silence. The doctor’s will is stronger than mine, though. I end up backing away with eyes strained on his back. Small trails of smoke rise from where he is burning plants for whatever reason and I am outside of the room before the bitter smell can hit me.

I should take all the good I have been given. Even if the doctor Unibrows isn’t going to give me new intel, Aina was more than helpful. The state of the medical help in this area is also now clearer at the sight of the many hospital beds lying on the sides of my path. And frankly, I have been physically thrown out from places, so this isn’t the worst experience.

Also, despite my desire to stay a bit longer, the way this healing ward gives off a funeral home atmosphere makes my feet move faster towards the door.

It will be alright. I have more information now than I had when arriving. The sun is still up too, which means I will have time to either look for more or settle for what I have and be on my way out of this plague town.

**_“Not right, not right, not right~”_ **

The floorboards creak again when I step on certain spots. No doubt the doctor on the other side of the wall hears them and listens intently. He definitely hears when my footsteps stop, but there is no sound of the door opening and closing.

I blink, trying to focus my vision. It is blurry – the world is _twisting._

My heartbeat quickens.

**_“It’s time to say…”_ **

You could start counting using all your fingers and toes and that still would not amount to the times I have fainted in my life. The process has either occurred from starvation, being beaten up, tiredness, dreamless nights, or for any other possible reason. And each time I have either been too numb to care, or too out of it. However, each time I knew the reason behind the fall that I took.

I can’t understand why black spots suddenly dance around the place now of all times. Blood rushes to my head, behind my eyes, as if blocking any ray of light through the thick current inside the veins.

**_“Night, night~”_ **

The voice in my head cackles madly. It cuts off shortly from a sickening crack echoing inside my skull.

* * *

He is expecting her to come running towards him near the entrance of the town. Jubo has been gathering intel from the other village for quite a while and surely, she would be done by now. It wouldn’t come as a surprise, if she has gone through every house there is or driven someone mad with her persistent questions.

The blonde waits for her to come running towards him with an upset – angry is more of a right term – townsman who would fill his ears with endless chatters of the complaint. That is usually a familiar scene. And if not that, he prays that his young colleague has enough sense to back away from the sick and lead the way back where they came from without a complaint.

_She may be reckless, stubborn, unpredictable, a knucklehead and at times suicidal with her rush towards stories, but she should possess some common sense in this situation._

Jubo nods to himself in reassurance, settling for waiting instead of heading deeper into the town.

Seconds tick by and then minutes. He waits and waits at the edge of the Whoosh village while indulging in snacks. The sound of teeth breaking and smashing nuts and apple cut through the otherwise peaceful silence.

Finally, when the sun is about to set, he is sweating bullets and not because there are flashes of people peeking out of the windows at him. His gut has begun to twist into knots – something is not right. _Where the hell is she!?_

Restless, he stands up and strolls towards the town center, turning his gaze around and holding back shudders. This place either has an epidemic and is considered of visitors’ safety or is a ghost town. And because he is so distracted by this, the man ends up colliding with someone who also has decided to take a random stroll.

“Ah.”

“Gah!” Jubo grimace's features fighting against obvious dismay.

A pair of grey eyes bore down lazily. “You’re… Moldy Banana.”

The blonde makes a choking sound at the back of his throat. He is intimidated for sure, but at the sound of that ridiculous name, he positively bristles. “It’s Jubo Ains – oh, why do I even bother?”

Of all the people who he could have run-in within this ominous place, it had to be the bored-looking swordsman. The familiar cigarette still hanging from his lips, the aloof gaze slides around them in a searching manner.

“That lil’ reporter woman ain’t with you?” He asks, not sounding confused or disappointed. It is hard to grasp the sound of his tone.

Jubo frowns, looking around as well as if Rora could come running from behind a building. “We were supposed to meet here, but… have you seen her?”

The taller man shakes his head, deflating his hopes. “We parted shortly after arriving, sorry.”

He shakes his head, running a hand through the messy tresses. “N-no, it’s alright. She’s always had a bit of habit to run off.”

“Huh, sounds like you’ve got your hands full then,” smoke trails out of the man’s mouth as he blows the bitter trail away.

“You’ve no idea,” Jubo mumbles under his breath, his mind trailing back to the worries that the brunette could be in trouble. Thought of asking around does come to mind, but… _From who?_ The doors to the houses are sealed shut.

And all he has for company is this bizarre fellow.

_But…_

He has to admit, there is something off about him. There isn’t actually a way to describe the strange sense that he should know this person. Back at the carriage, the tension was high, and the sight of the weapon hadn’t helped, but it is exactly that kind of intimidation that screams familiarity. Jubo can’t put his finger on it, though. The enigma known hilariously as Mr. Bear to Rora has an air similar to this town… stoic and fear installing.

The sun keeps on setting and the uneasiness in his stomach just keeps on spreading. This is an unfamiliar place, and he has no idea where the woman he came with here has wandered off to this time.

“This town sure is weird, though,” the said man comments offhandedly, completely going off the subject. His narrow eyes look at the surroundings before narrowing down the blonde. “What do you know about this place?”

“Eh?” The journalist has to blink a few times to get the gears in his head moving.

He must stay silent for too long because before he even knows it a hand lands on top of his head. Screeching, Jubo freezes completely, eyes nearly bulging out of his skull as he looks up at the menacing figure.

“Don’t ‘eh’ me – answer the question,” he demands and without missing a beat tightens his grip. “Speak before I squeeze too hard.”

“Y-y-y-y-y-you’re already squeezing!”

He should have just stayed back at the other town.

* * *

Something is not right.

Of course, it is obvious the moment I open my eyes to see the legs of a bed and others alike following it. If the situation is normal, I would be lying on one of them and not on the ground. The wood is hard and small uneven parts of it scratch my skin from moving.

I am still in the same building, but it does not feel the same. A change has happened – the air is too quiet to contain any life in it.

Cold. It is cold.

Shuddering, I slowly start to rise up but nearly fall back down. _Pain._ It shoots up and down my limbs to the muscles in my abdomen and bile bubbles threateningly at the base of the throat. I clench my fists, eyes struggling to look up, vision unfocused from all the blood suddenly rushing to my head. _No, not now._ Unease grips my gut.

There is one broken glass bottle on the ground. Whatever it contained has been spilled all over the floor. The floorboards have been soaked with it, the splatter is dark and stark against the wood. Small and sharp shards reach as far as the other end of the room and a few are just an inch away from me. As I sit further up, my hands brush against them, the edges dangerously close to the skin. No blood is drawn, at least from me.

My breathing hitches.

The doctor is on the ground as well. But he is not stirring or attempting to get up. He faces downwards, arms spread above his head. His body lays between two beds where the forms of patients are sleeping soundly like he just fell asleep right there and then without much noise.

Whatever occurred, it had not been enough to wake the slumbering sick.

_No._

The floor creaks and groans when I finally stand up. Every muscle in my body screams for a stop as I take the first step.

From this angle, I can see a small dark spot on the wall behind the fallen man, and my heart sinks. My knees give up on me when just a few feet are separating us and I fall back down. The sound of a dull thud pierces the otherwise silent building. My knees burn.

_No, no, no, no…_

I reach out, tentatively touching the man’s arm, giving it a weak shake. I can barely keep myself upright – tremors shake my entire body. On the back of his head, in the middle of patches of white and greying hair, there is a dark spot similar to the one on the wall. It is small, but stark and bile threatens to rise up my throat for the second time.

Retracting the hand as if the unconscious man has burned it, I cover my mouth. The shock is great enough for me to miss the way his shoulders rise and fall with steady breaths – he is merely unconscious, not dead.

Cold sweat trails down my back and I clutch my head, tugging on the roots of my hair. I want to pull them out. I want to claw my throat which feels like it is being clogged by an invisible lump. I can’t _breathe_.

I scramble up and look around. My bag lies close and I almost trip over it in my haste. The content is on the floor, the notebook spread wide open for anyone to see what I have written down. I grab it but freeze when I see the text – it is not my handwriting.

The crude letters are dark and made me sharp strokes. The text is large and is close to slipping off from the paper. Seeing it makes me feel like the air has been knocked out of my lungs and I look down my right hand to see smudges of dark around the fingertips – the broken charcoal is found by me a few seconds later on the ground.

 _‘No magic,’_ is what it says.

“What _did_ you do?” I ask quietly, voice faint and dark. Shimmering rage builds up within my stomach and the image of the fallen doctor is burned into my memory.

The hairs on the back of my neck stand up. My head begins to ring again and beyond that buzzing sound the familiar cackle echoes.

A sharp jolt makes me cringe and I reach out to touch my head, as if that could silence the voice and pain simultaneously. The pain worsens though, and when I lower my hand and look at it, crimson smudges have been spread across the skin. 

At least now I know that the cracking sound before I lost it was not my imagination. 


End file.
